


Love That Crosses Dimensions

by Misty Shadowbrook (Dagger_Stiletto)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Dimension Travel, Dursley Family Bashing (Harry Potter), Elder Wand (Harry Potter), Fluff, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Bashing, Not Canon Compliant, Soulmates, harry finds family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:07:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27597989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dagger_Stiletto/pseuds/Misty%20Shadowbrook
Summary: Following an unforeseen break-up with Ginny, Harry finds out soulmates are real. While struggling with his heartbreak and discovering the secrets of soul matches, an inexplicable event throws him into a whole different world where the Potters are alive and want nothing more than to be his family. In fact, a lot of people in his past are alive, and Harry must adjust to life in this new world while deciding whether he wants to go back to where he came from.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 37
Kudos: 212





	Love That Crosses Dimensions

**Author's Note:**

> Soulmate AUs are my favorite fics to read. I am a sucker for the destined love ideas that people come up with, and when this idea hit, I couldn't help but write it. I don't know if it is up to par, but I can't put the idea aside.
> 
> I intend for this to have two or three chapters. I will add tags as I go. If I miss any, let me know so I can add them.
> 
> This work was beta-read by my lovely friend dvoiddubs! Check them out on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/DubTheVoid?s=07) and [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UChDuMJQ0jDuSzqKfoJLUNBg) for their amazing voice-acting and dubs! Support my friend-bean!

_Harry is twenty-two years old when he finds out about_ the existence of soulmates, and he can't help but feel a little cheated, on top of the heartbreak. Every Witch and Wizard, and Squib, Purebloods, Halfbloods, and Muggleborns alike, are born with a soul fragment meant to mesh with one, or more, person that is created just for them. Those of the Wizarding World would only ever reach their full potential magically and emotionally, as human beings in general, after meeting and bonding with their match, or matches. Occasionally, they have two matches, their souls made of three parts, and even more rarely, there are four-part matches.

The fact that they are born with a soul already fragmented suddenly makes more sense that Voldemort went absolutely bonkers splitting his soul so many times.

Soulmates could be platonic and/or romantic, but everyone had at least one other part to their soul. When they touch skin-on-skin, a bright light would sparkle and glow at the point of contact, blue for platonic, gold for romantic matches, and a warmth and a so-called “sense of rightness” would spread through the soul. A strengthening of the magical core and the mind.

Hearing how the presence of a soulmate manifests makes Harry realize yet another motivation for complete strangers to try and touch him. Of course the unbonded public would want to be soulmates with the Boy-Who-Lived, no matter their age or gender or whether he knows about the customs!

Discovering your soulmate is supposed to be a joyous occasion, no matter who matches.

Apparently, even if it means someone is left behind from a relationship abruptly ending because he didn't know something like this _could happen._

Harry _didn't know._ He didn't know until Ginny met her soulmate, touched him, and dumped Harry like a sack of rocks without more explanation than “I found my soulmate.” He hadn't known Ginny only considered Harry as an acceptable stand-in until her perfect match came along. He'd put everything he could into this relationship, had truly loved her for years! To be dropped so readily was soul-crushing.

His friends didn't understand why he was—still is—so devastated when he should have been _happy_ for her, and he couldn't understand how people who professed to love him could be so callous as they were to his heartbreak, how they seemed to hold him in contempt when he tried to just _talk_ about it, until his ignorance finally came to light. Then they felt pity for him that he didn't know about soulmates as being far more than just a metaphor or rhetoric.

Well how was he supposed to know when 90% of his life in the Wizarding World had been spent just trying to _survive_?

After Hermione sat down and explained it all to Harry, about soul matches and how to recognize the manifestation, she automatically led into a rant about how Britain's educational system needed to change to include things that would prepare students for life in ways other than just how to wield a wand and stir a potion, and teach basic Wizarding culture to students who didn't grow up in or near said culture.

These reactions didn't yield the emotional support he needed, and it made him realize all the more how devastating the deaths in the war were. Sirius and Remus had been soulmates. His mom and dad, and Snape had been Mom's platonic soul match. The Longbottoms. Twins often shared the same bondmates and a platonic match with each other, which means George and his soulmate would always feel a piece missing.

While Ron and his family, Hermione, and a few other mutual friends celebrate Ginny's preliminary bonding and plan the ceremonial handfasting, Harry withdraws and spends more time than usual with Teddy and Andromeda, doting on the adorable toddler. Andromeda quietly supports him, never expressly sympathizing but also far more understanding of his position and pain as she watches him interact and play with her four-year-old grandson. Teddy is a perfect mix of Remus and Nymphadora temperament-wise, incredibly smart and sweet, and he already shows signs of being a Metamorphmagi like his mother had been. Harry wonders if he can learn the Animagus talent with Remus' DNA in his veins.

Harry feels alienated. He feels betrayed. He feels ignored and cast aside. They expect him to be happy for Ginny, even though they now know that he'd been completely committed to their relationship, having had no reason to believe that it wouldn't last since he'd been oblivious to the knowledge that the universe hadn't sanctioned it. He's unbearably lonely, and he was so used to sleeping beside Ginny that he can't sleep more than a few hours a night, and not until the wee hours of the morning.

He takes a brief hiatus from his apprenticeship with Ollivander, unable to focus appropriately on carving the wood casings, cleaning and preparing the cores, and polishing the finished wands. He obsesses over the cleanliness of his home, having moved into Grimmauld Place. He cleans, he disposes of broken or molded furniture, donates items he doesn't need or want, works on preserving heirlooms that he doesn't want to just fade with the Black name. Kreacher, whose temperament had improved after the war, is hard-pressed not to protest, appearing to understand that Harry needs an outlet, even if he doesn't approve of it.

The two months following the initial break up, his friends don't really contact him, don't really act like _friends_ , and he doesn't bother reaching out after those first few times he had been shut down. He can't forgive so easily the mistreatment or abandonment, and he resolves to move on, focus on his home, his apprenticeship which is only a month or so away from being completed, and his relationship with Teddy and Andromeda.

Life goes on. He works through the pain and grief, stuffs down his loneliness, and learns to sleep alone again. He completes his apprenticeship and stays on at Ollivander's indefinitely, not officially employed but wanting to at least stick around and help the older Wizard until he decides if he wants to stay here permanently, start his own business, or work as a private specialist for wand repair. He reconciles with George, glad that someone at least understands loss and loneliness, even if it's not exactly the same.

Then his focus shifts. He starts seeing the closeness among those officially bonded with their soulmates, sees their happiness, their stability. He sees a few meetings in public, and the wonder and joy in their expressions and voices are almost too painful and _private_ to look at. His chest hurts, lungs seizing with longing. He wants it, that inherent sense of belonging and irrevocable love. He could care less about the magic, the increased power; his power has always been too much, too large, too bright since he defeated Lord Voldemort, sometimes to the point that he worried his holly wand wouldn't be able to handle it. He wants the connection, the promise of a family, even if it's a family of one other person.

So he researches. Headmistress McGonagall allows him access to Hogwarts' library, and he cross-references them with books in the Black library in Grimmauld Place. He reads old newspaper articles, does all the research he possibly can. To what end, he doesn't quite know. He hyperfocuses without a clear destination, running high on emotions and desperation. He obsesses almost on a level that Hermione had displayed in Hogwarts and when she'd been pursuing a cause she believed was worthwhile to further her career and create change for the good of society.

“What exactly are you looking to accomplish with all this, Haz?” George asks one day when he drops by to visit, and probably to make sure Harry hasn't expired under a pile of dusty tomes, newspapers, and scrolls.

“I'm not sure,” Harry admits from his place curled up in a comfy armchair. He watches George peruse through his collected materials, rifling through a stack of notes. “But it feels necessary. Feels important.”

“Are you sure it's not just a form of avoidance?” the tall ginger asks, setting the notes down where he found them and leans back against the desk to face Harry.

“I don't know. I don't think so. I'm still doing the things I normally do. I'm not ignoring my job or spending time with Teddy. I just do this the rest of the time.” He shrugs.

“Mum says you haven't replied to her letters,” George says casually.

He squirms, feeling heat around his neck. “I don't know what to say. None of them have apologized for the way they treated me, and aside from you, she's the only one that has contacted me. Exactly three letters. The first one was to ask if I could return a garment of Ginny's that she lost and I don't have because Ginny couldn't be bothered to ask herself, and the second was an invitation to Ginny's Handfasting Ceremony.” He ducks his head and takes a careful breath.

“Please tell me she didn't,” George sighs, just short of groaning as he drops his head back.

“I didn't throw it away yet.” He points to the desk. “Top right drawer.”

George looks and groans fully this time, then walks to the fireplace, tossing the invitation and letter in. “Unbelievable. Sorry, Haz. Ginny's the only girl, and you know Mum coddled her more than all of us. This is the only Handfasting Ceremony she'll be in charge of planning.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Guess she's a little blinded by the excitement, and she always thought of you as another son, so of course she'd invite you to important events.”

Harry shrugs again, looking at the fireplace where the invitation, lovely and elegant as it was, is already reduced to ash. Alongside his hurt at the oversight, he's also impressed with the monologue George had just issued; when Fred was alive, they'd swapped back and forth in conversation and actions, like a dance, both of them linked so deeply that they finished sentences, even if the other had only just walked into the conversation literal seconds before. Since the loss of his twin and bondmate, George has had to get used to speaking all on his own, and even years after, he'll drift off sometimes, waiting for Fred to pick up the tail end of his sentences; when it doesn't happen, the sentence just remains unfinished, and George often remains melancholy for the rest of the conversation.

“I understand, George. But aside from you, none of them have really contacted me, and they don't understand how I could be hurt or upset in the face of someone finding their perfect person. Muggles don't have soulmates. They fantasize and hope and pray they meet their forever-person, but it's not a reality.” He looks to George now. “I didn't know I was just a stepping stone or a fling. I never would have agreed to date her if there was an inkling that we weren't in it for the long haul. I would have asked her to marry me eventually, and she would have rejected me, and I'd be in the same place as I am now. Because I was only ever a placeholder, without even knowing it.”

He quirks a sardonic smile, and George looks gutted. “Now all I have is this place, and wands, and this research of a subject I went eleven years living in the Wizarding World without ever knowing. All the memories we made are tainted now because my hopes and dreams I attached to them were never a possibility. And now my only hope is to find my soulmate? Because I know I could never do this again. Not with the possibility of losing them to someone else, or causing them the same pain I've gone through, looming over my head.”

“I'm sorry, Harry,” George whispers brokenly, taking a few long strides to wrap him in a tight hug.

“I never realized how often and how many people try to touch me,” he whispers into his friend's jumper, clutching at his ribs. “But now I can't stop noticing it. It bothered me before, but now I'm in a constant state of awareness and a sick sense of terror combined with longing, and _that's_ terrifying too.” He takes a few shaky breaths, inhaling the scent of family and belonging mixed with spices and a hint of incendiary power used in George's pranks that clung to the older man's jumper.

“Is the research at least helping?” George asks, rubbing his hands up and down, not seeming to mind the unusually long embrace.

“I think so?” He shakes his head a little, one hand coming up to rub stinging eyes where tears had formed and readied themselves to fall but never had. “At the very least it's preparing me for what I should expect if I should meet my soulmate.”

“When.”

“Huh?” Harry tilts his head and blinks in confusion.

“ _When_ you find your soulmate,” George says with confidence.

“You don't know that. Nothing is a solid guarantee. Some people never find their match,” Harry denies.

“But _you will,_ Harry,” George professes with quiet but steely conviction, and he pulls back to look down at Harry intently. “Out of all of us, you deserve it most. You _deserve_ to be happy, Harry, and the universe will make sure that, one way or another, you'll get your happy ending, your forever and a day love of your life. And you won't think twice about your time with Ginny because as good as you think it was, what you have with your perfect person will be ten times _better_.”

This time Harry gives an embarrassed smile. These Weasleys always know how to tug at his heartstrings, whether through actions or words. He hugs George a little while longer until he feels ready to pull away and move on to different topics of conversation. George goes along with it, but after this, he makes a point of talking and/or dropping by more often. Harry doesn't mind at all, grateful that someone cares enough to do when his other friends and adopted family are too focused on other things.

When Harry found as much information as he can on soulmates and the workings of the bonds, found some rather interesting theories that have yet to be proven or debunked about soul matches maybe making interdimensional travel possible, and debunked beliefs, debunked rituals that were believed to assist in magically locating a soulmate—apparently the universe of Fates or whatever determines the soul matches don't allow for “cheating”—his obsession slacks off. He never loses his paranoia and avoids situations that will allow for random people to be touching him without his prior knowledge or consent, even going so far as to conjure a mild flexible shield charm that stops unapproved contact within centimeters of their skin actually touching his.

Ginny's Handfasting Ceremony takes place seven months after she meets her soulmate and subsequent breakup with Harry. He has minimum contact with the Weasley clan outside of George and Molly, whom George had scolded about her unintentional callousness and disregard of Harry's feelings, especially when she had deigned to complain about never seeing him, not long after their conversation; she, of course, apologized, near tears, and did her best to make it up to Harry, and Harry allows her to dote on him and visit whenever she wants, feeling that their relationship had mended almost naturally.

Hermione and Ron don't show up as often as they used to before the whole blow-up, and he doesn't know why. He feels that they've gone through worse things and come out on the other side. He can always attribute Hermione's inattentiveness to her obsessive personality and workaholic tendencies—she really _is_ determined to change some of the requirements in the school board so other Muggleborns and Muggle-raised Wizarding children won't miss out on important facts of the Wizarding World and the culture that going along with it. Ron, however, doesn't have the same excuse, and Harry thinks it's just one of those things that Ron either just isn't thinking about, or he's perceived some unforgivable act on Harry's part that he's going to hold against him until one of them breaks.

Harry doesn't intend to. He did nothing wrong, and his reaction to being dumped and abandoned was and still is valid, no matter what Ron or anyone else thought on the matter. Harry had deserved more, had deserved better, than the treatment he'd received during and following his relationship with Ginny, and he expected more from the people he considered family.

In November, Ollivander decides to go on holiday, and rather than leave the shop in Harry's more than capable hands, he closes it up and commands Harry to take his own holiday. Harry protests, but Ollivander hears nothing of it, even goes so far as to temporarily reclaim Harry's copy of the key to the shop.

“I will be back in two weeks,” he says, patting a flabbergasted Harry on the shoulder with amusement sparkling in his eyes. “Go relax and enjoy yourself. You have not taken a vacation since I have known you professionally, and that little break was more of a medical leave than a holiday, so don't try convincing me otherwise. I will see you at the end of the month, Harry.”

So now Harry has only time to wander Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. He searches for a few gifts, takes a few robes to Madam Malkin's for repair. He visits George and plays a few harmless pranks on him for once, though he'd never know until Harry is safely ensconced in Grimmauld Place. He visits Hogwarts, sitting in on some classes for old times' sake; visits with McGonagall—“call me Minerva, please Harry, I am no longer your professor”—and fills her in on his life since the last time they spoke was right after New Year's.

The “vacation” becomes boring after that, and Harry finds himself increasingly restless. He has to find other things with which to occupy himself. He works on honing his wandmaking and repairing skills, brushes up on the different cores and their effects on wands. He travels to the Chamber of Secrets and harvest a pouch full of the scales from the basilisk's corpse, along with some of her horns, deciding he'd experiment with those; he remembers reading that Salazar Slytherin had a wand made of a basilisk horn, so he wonders if he can replicate it. He's confident enough in his skill and the strength of his magic to be able to contain any ill-effects should a combination react badly with the chosen materials to encase the cores.

He goes again to Hogwarts a different day with a messenger bag with empty pouches, a pouch of Galleons in case he needs them, and the pouch of scales and horns. He also brings his wand, heavy boots, and a heavy cloak for the late autumn chill. He visits Dumbledore's tomb, paying his respect and speaking softly to the white marble as he touches it reverently.

Then he heads to the Forbidden Forest in search of new woods and magical materials he can try using with his collection of basilisk scales and horns, unicorn tail and mane hairs, and dragon heartstrings graciously provided by Charlie. He scours the forest carefully, collecting different materials he finds interesting and thinks might make a new core or an interesting wand casing. Of course, he's very careful, remains respectful, and avoids the areas over which he knows the creatures are especially territorial. The hike is oddly peaceful, though he doesn't allow this fact to lull him into a false sense of security. At no point does he intend to be one of those souls that enter but never exit the Forbidden Forest.

A thrill of excitement dances through him when he finds some shed runespoor skin, and he casts some preservation charms before he tucks it away in an empty pouch and then into the messenger bag. He also finds a tangle of silvery unicorn tail hair in a thorny bush. Skirting the edge of the clearing he knows Centaurs frequent, he finds some of their tail hairs, too. A sparkling pair of wings on a log looks a little like a sprite's or fairy's wings, and he collects them just in case they're useful. He trips over a piece of antler and collects that, too, to identify later.

When his wand buzzes with the clock alarm charm he'd set to make sure he doesn't stay too long, Harry heads back to the edge of the forest so he won't be caught there in its depths after dark. He gathers a few of the rare potion ingredients he notices along the way, intending on selling them to Draco Malfoy at his apothecary in Hogsmeade later this week.

He comes out of the Forbidden Forest and leans against one of the outermost trees to take a small breather, having pumped his legs a little more than usual towards the last half hour to make sure he made it in time. He adjusts his warm cloak and checks the pouches in his messenger bag. Once he feels ready, satisfied that he'd made it out of tree cover before the sun set completely, Harry pushes off the tree and takes a couple steps away from the treeline towards the castle.

A crack like lightning splits the air, startling Harry into almost stumbling. Battle instincts from years ago seize him, and Harry whips around, wand drawn, and scans the school grounds for the source of the sound. It almost sounded like Apparation, but Hogwarts' wards, strengthened since the war, prevent Apparation for the safety of the students. He hears another thunderous crack from his left, and he whirls to face it, eyes wide and breath catching in his throat.

Harry swallows when his eyes land on the White Tomb, Albus Dumbledore's final resting place. He hesitantly approaches, senses on high alert, and thinks he can hear a high-pitched whistling through the air the closer he got. His heart pounds heavily in his chest, and dread coils in his stomach when he sees the heavy slab of marble broken in four uneven pieces. Panicking, he quickly whispered multiple charms to repair and seal up Dumbledore's tomb again.

All the while, Harry scans the grounds for the culprit that had vandalized the revered Headmaster's grave. Something coils inside his throat, telling him that it certainly wasn't a student.

He turns away from the pristine marble tomb once the covering is fully repaired. Wand still drawn and at the ready, feet light and stance loose, he takes a few steps away from the grave.

The whistling sharpens, and a flash in the corner of his eye makes Harry whip around again and shoot off a Stunner, only for it to dissipate in thin air. Something dark and thin comes rocketing at his head, and he dodges with a startled shout. The object wheels around to follow him, and he can't see very well in the darkening twilight, so Harry throws up a spell that tosses a sphere to hover above him and cast light over the immediate area in a ten-meter radius.

His breath, visible in the air in front of him, catches at what he sees is attacking him.

It's the Elder Wand.

The distinctive wand gleams in the darkness, ominous and eerie, power throbbing off of it to an almost visible degree. His magic inexplicably reaches towards it, as if recognizing an old friend from years ago, even though he had only actively been its official Master for a single battle, and he ruthlessly reigns in his magic, scowling.

It shoots a spell at him, completely independent of a Wizard or Witch to wield it. Harry throws up a shield, but the spell circumvents it, curving around the shield like water, and strikes his wand and arm.

The pain lancing through his left arm makes him drop the wand and fall to a knee, clutching the injured limb while his wand flies from his grasp less than a meter away. It burns and aches in the bone, like electricity had been directly applied to the marrow. It hangs limp. Wincing, he glances at his wand, ready to attempt to use it with his non-dominant hand, heart pounding harshly in his ribcage.

His wand lies in the grass, smoking and singed, a deep crack splitting along the shaft to expose the phoenix feather core.

“ _Mr. Potter!_ ” he hears behind him, and he would recognize Professor McGonagall's voice anywhere. “What is happening here?!” Feet rapidly approach from the direction of the castle, at least three people rushing to his aid.

“The Elder Wand escaped Dumbledore's tomb,” he shouts, watching the wand hover in the air meters in front of him, an ominous threat that hums like a swarm of bees. He grabs his wand, grateful his brief stint as an Auror had taught him how to use either hand to wield a wand in the event an opponent attempted to incapacitate them. He feels its magic spark and sputter in a way he knows means he won't be able to use it any time soon without serious repair. “It attacked me and damaged my wand, Headmistress. Be careful.” He can barely move his arm, pain making it hard to think right now.

A brilliant stream of gold shoots passed Harry from behind and above him, but the sentient wand easily deflects it with a twirl. An explosion of dirt bursts up where the spell impacts, shaking the ground. Professor Sinistra, McGonagall, and the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor Harry hasn't met yet all run in front to defend him, spread like a shield as he sways on his feet, clutching his aching arm. A pulse of energy ripples from the Elder Wand, and Harry sways unsteadily, his holly wand sparking and sputtering in his loose grip, as if responding to the legendary wand's threats.

McGonagall casts a shield over them even as the DADA professor fires off an offensive spell that Harry doesn't catch the name of, but it smells like smoke from a wood burner. The streak of red lightning transforms to flames as it races along the wand's shaft, but said wand spins over and over, creating a burning inferno that it then flings back at them. The flaming tornado screams its way back, leaving scorch through the grass, and Professor Sinistra and the Headmistress leap to call upon the water of the lake to douse the magical fire before it can spread to the forest or harm one of them.

While the women are distracted, the Elder Wand shatters McGonagall's shield, with apparent ease, and rockets back toward Harry, the buzzing noise traded for the high-pitched whistling that apparently indicates its flight as it sails though the air at high speeds.

Harry isn't fast enough to dodge or fire off his own defensive spell. All he can manage is to bring up his arm, defective wand poised, and then the Elder Wand slams into him. He screams as he's violently lifted from the ground and flung meters back, like a player in Muggle rugby being tackled. He flails wildly, trying to defend himself in any way possible, magic lashing out despite how it previously wanted to greet the wand, survival instincts overriding everything. The breath is knocked roughly out of him as he lands on his back, his fingertips are shocked and burnt from the malfunctioning holly wand, and the pain that shrieks through him damn near knocks him out.

His vision tunnels, and he watches as the Elder Wand attacks his wand directly, like a snake striking another smaller interloper, splitting it completely in half. The phoenix feather flutters free of the casing, the wood splintering, and pain lances through Harry's chest like a knife trying to gut him.

And then the Elder Wand _consumes_ the holly wand.

That's the only description for it. Magic thrums and pulses through the air, and a dome of hardened air with spiderwebs of green crackling lightning forms around him and the Elder Wand, blocking the professors from rushing back to rescue Harry. The Elder Wand pulsates and seems to get bigger, and the holly wand breaks down further, disintegrating while Harry watches, horrified. The resulting dust, as his wand literally screams, streams through the air and seems to be sucked into the tip of the Deathly Hallow.

Harry tries to stand, although he doesn't know what he could do to stop anything. He shouts and pushes out a pulse of wandless, raw, destructive magic at the pair of wands, but it rolls off them like water off a duck's back. The holly continues to disintegrate even as it struggles against the superior tool, and the Elder Wand reverberates with power.

Dead silence spreads through the night as the last of Harry's faithful wand is completely absorbed. Harry's legs collapse under him, and he pants, shuddering, eyes wide and horrified while the three Witches outside goggle in awestruck trepidation.

The Elder Wand definitely looks a little larger, the carvings altered into smooth swirls rather than the hundreds of odd pockmarks, and the power emanating from it seems to have increased exponentially. The buzzing swarm has grown louder, and Harry can feel the vibrations on his skin, digging in his ears. The air trembles. He feels almost feverish, confused and throbbing with agony, chest aching with the loss of his wand and the strength at which his heart is galloping, and he feels like the pressure of the magic bearing down on him and the grief combined will make him sick.

The Headmistress steps back, and the other two professors follow. From inside the dome, gazing passed the Elder Ward, Harry watches as the three Witches press their wands together, their lips moving in an unusually long incantation.

A concussive blast sounds throughout the school grounds, making the ground shake and the trees tremble. Colored streams of light—red, white, gold, blue, and violet—erupt from their wands, swirling around each other even as they speed toward the dome. They burst apart and curve all around the dome before colliding against the crackling walls in an attempt to break in and dissolve the shield. When those streamers fade, several more gush out to strike at slightly different points of contact, constantly battering until the shield starts to crack.

But as soon as the splintering dome fractures clear through, it is like air is violently sucked out, creating a brutal vacuum that asphyxiates Harry almost instantly. He gasps but gets no air, weakly crumpling to the ground once more as he fights to breathe, his good hand clawing at an invisible hand around his throat. He thinks he can hear the women crying out in alarm, and the dome fractures further, pressure crushing down on his helpless form.

The Elder Wand shrills, a sound of rage, maybe a battlecry, and the magic that bursts from it dissolves the rest of the protective shell. The wand zips across the distance to Harry, and Harry's last bit of breath releases in a scream as it stabs the meat of his chest over his heart.

Several things happen in the next few minutes, too fast for Harry to truly comprehend.

The green lightning retracts back to the Elder Wand while it is still embedded by several centimeters into his pectoral muscle, sending surprisingly mild static through Harry's weakened body. The professors aren't fast enough to pull back or cancel their spell. At the same time, the streams of color slam into him full force. Harry is sure that he's dying. His heart stutters under the strain, lungs trying to collapse in his chest. A golden glow spreads over him, beginning from the place where the tip of the wand is still in his chest, and he has the irrational sensation of being swallowed by magic.

The Elder Wand extracts itself from his flesh, and blood spurts forth, staining his light-colored shirt. It does some kind of complicated gesture over him as the world tilts and warps around him. Harry gasps and feels like he's melting, even as the wound heals and leaves behind an oddly starburst-shaped scar.

The world is too loud with the sound of his sputtering heartbeat, the screaming of his nerve-endings, the voices of the terrified professors, the rushing and roaring of trembling trees and violent winds, and the buzz of angry magics surrounding him. The Elder Wand slots itself into his hand, and he clenches his fingers almost instinctively. Magic stronger than he's ever felt before with a tinge of the taste of his old phoenix feather wand flares through his already overwhelmed senses. It numbs a lot of the pain, and he takes a breath for the first time in minutes.

But the combination of magics tearing up the air and across the ground and through his body are too much, too intense, all at once to not create something catastrophic, and terrific in so many senses of the word. Reality bends and contorts, and blackness deeper than even the abyss under the oceans spreads like spilled ink around Harry. His body lifts off the ground, and then it feels like something is sucking him forcefully in an indecipherable direction. The sudden silence is deafening, and Hogwarts castle and the lake and the professors melt and drip out of sight, of existences, replaced by a myriad of ever changing swirls of color and bright flashing points of light.

He gets the sensation that he's being flung at unfathomable speeds over an undetermined distance. His body, the cells and atoms that make up his entire being, stretch and shrink and twist, over and over in unpredictable patterns. He's taken apart and smashed together again endlessly. He writhes but remains motionless, screams but remains silent. He is both everything and nothing all at once, there but nowhere, a thousand contradictions simultaneously.

Tears stream from his eyes and float around him like diamond bubbles. He gasps and tries to release the Elder Wand, but it sticks to his palm stubbornly. His messenger bag beats against his thigh and hip intermittently, the crossbody shoulder strap rasping against his chest. Harry soundlessly moans and closes his eyes against the disorienting colors and lights, and he worries he might be sick soon, on top of everything else, stomach roiling and bile rising.

His body slams into an odd resistance, a little like he'd belly-flopped into a pool after falling from an extreme height, further confusing him since he hadn't been falling per se, more like being dragged and thrown forward forever. He tries to move his arms as though he is swimming, but agony holds his damaged left arm limp, hanging uselessly. He's hauled forward regardless, endlessly, and he can still breathe despite the watery feel to the atmosphere. For several minutes, or hours, or days, he's pulled through it, and then he breaks through into something cold like winter air.

The directional orientation of his body shifts abruptly, the action dizzyingly nauseating.

Then Harry is _literally_ falling, and his body regains the feeling of being solid and whole, though still racked with pain. The lights beyond his eyelids change enough that he opens them in further confusion. He shrieks when he sees himself dropping through the sky in an unfamiliar place, hurtling toward the snow-covered roof of a rural house. His body passes through the wards like they're nothing.

A pulse of wandless magic barely has enough time to form a shield around before he makes impact with it.

He crashes clean through the roof, falls into a room, breaks through the floor, and crashes through the ceiling of the room below the first before landing in a broken heap on top of a low table, whose legs collapse underneath his weight.

Harry blacks out.

Long moments later, he jerks back into awareness and throws up his right arm, hand grasping the Elder Wand tightly as he casts a nonverbal shield charm before the hand of a Wizard he hasn't yet identified can touch him. He wheezes in distress and cowers under the shell of the shield, shouting hoarsely in fright and scrambling backwards over the debris resultant of his literal crash landing. He doesn't stop until his back hits a wall. The shield automatically morphs to form a type of closed-off bubble, using the wall as a support to protect him from all angles.

His eyes focus, and his breath dies in his lungs. The sound of a wounded animal claws its way from his throat as his green gaze lands on the Wizard that had attempted to touch him.

Albus Dumbledore.

“You're dead,” he blurts, panicking.

“I don't think you have any grounds to be making threats,” someone snaps beyond his old and very much not-dead Headmaster.

“This isn't real,” Harry continues, senseless, mumbling and desperate as panic and wrongness eats away at him. “You're dead. I saw you die, this isn't real.”

His eyes snap to the side at movement further into the room. Unsteadily, he gazes around the drawing room he's fallen into, and the dread in his stomach grows, twanging and digging like an animal trying to tear out his guts as he takes in each new face staring at him. Severus Snape. Remus Lupin. Sirius Black, and a younger man that looks like a younger version of him. Two others he doesn't know, has only seen in portraits and _knows_ them to be long dead.

And in one of the many comfortable chairs beside the demolished table...sits a young Tom Riddle.

A phantom pain pulses through his scar, and he thinks he feels wetness ooze from it.

“I'm dead,” Harry whispers, numbness creeping through his veins, deadening the emotional and physical agony plaguing his body. “I have to be dead. I've died again, the Elder Wand murdered me next to Dumbledore's tomb, and now I'm in some sort of purgatory with other dead souls.”

“The boy's raving mad,” the first unfamiliar man mutters, eyeing Harry warily.

“He did just fall through two layers of house,” says the one that looks like but can't possibly be Sirius Black as he looks curiously up through the Harry-shaped holes made by his body. “I imagine he hit his head. Scrambled his brains a bit.”

“He's bleeding from a few places on his head,” agrees not-Remus as he carefully approaches.

Harry automatically adds three layers more to his Shield Charm. Distantly, he finds it odd that he has yet to say or even think of a literal spell; he'd just _willed_ the shield into existence. It shouldn't be possible. How he even has the magical strength to do it and maintain it is beyond him when he is so bone-deep tired. He can't even feel his magic anymore.

“Dear boy,” Dumbledore says as Remus draws up short, but he falls silent when Harry makes another wounded animal noise as the endearment, his expression grave with concern. “No one in this room is dead, I assure you. Not even you. We will not hurt you.” He bends a little as if to try to get a better look at Harry's face.

“Be careful, Albus,” the second unfamiliar Wizard cautions from over by the fireplace. “He doesn't seem stable, and your kindness will be your downfall one day.”

“Can't harm what's already dead,” Harry babbles, curling in on himself, making his body as small as he can. “We're all dead. Can't harm the dead. See the dead, hear the dead, feel the dead. Can't hurt, can't harm.” He can't stop shaking, twitching, but also inexplicably feels like sleeping even as his eyes constantly flit and rove about the room. “You're all dead. We're all _dead._ I died. Died again. Once wasn't enough. Died again...”

Would he be missed back home? Wherever home is...

“I believe he may be going into shock,” Snape remarks, and Harry sees him stride over in a calculated move, pulling out a potions vial. He approaches as if moving toward a wild animal, crouches down half a meter outside the reinforced bubble. “Young man, I believe you would benefit from a Calming Draught. We can call a Healer for you as well. Mr. Gaunt has a private Healer if you prefer not to go to St. Mungo's.” His voice is calm and level, ringing true in his memory because even when he was angry, Snape rarely ever raised his voice. What Harry can't reconcile is the gentleness in his eyes, the youth and softness in his face, and the lack of snake bite marks on his neck where Nagini attacked him.

Harry sways in his spot, more of a side-to-side rocking motion reminiscent of an inconsolable asylum patient, bewildered, eyes unfocusing and refocusing intermittently. “Can't calm the dead, can't heal the dead,” he mumbles, words slurring. He blinks rapidly when something drips into and stings his eye, and he nearly gouges it out with his wand when he reaches up to wipe and rub.

“Am I to assume all of us died peaceful deaths?” Snape asks, and Harry looks up in confusion.

“No,” he answers after a moment. Did Snape not remember? Although to be fair, Harry's not quite sure how he died either. Did one lose their memories when sent to purgatory? “You killed Dumbledore so Malfoy wouldn't have to, and you died when Nagini bit you.”

An affronted noise comes from deeper in the room. “She would never—!”

“Tom, please,” Dumbledore quells with a shushing motion.

“And how did you die?” Snape asks, trying to keep Harry's focus.

Harry stares at him, as well as he can through watering and unfocusing eyes. “I don't remember.”

“If you have died, you died violently,” the former professor tells him. “You're bleeding from your head, your arms, and it looks like you've had a recent wound on your chest. If you have died and are bleeding still, would those of us here who died similarly not also be bleeding? Especially I from a rather large snake bite?”

His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, and he licks his lips. His eyes dart over to Dumbledore, and he flexes his fingers. Snape makes sense, but the situation is suspect. All of these people should be dead. Is he hallucinating then? But why these people? Nothing else is making sense, and he doesn't know how long he can keep the shield up. No one has been aggressive towards him thus far. They're acting like they don't know him...

Harry lets out a soft breath and drops his shield, hoping he is making the right decision, or that at least real death will be swift. Snape's expression remains placid, though he thinks he sees his lips quirk briefly in approval. The man reaches forward carefully, passing over the vial. Harry cautiously reaches over, and the top pops off when the Elder Wand touches it. Information on the potion files into his brain, as if he had cast a spell, but he knows he didn't, and it freaks him out. He hastily accepts the Calming Draught, gulping it down.

As artificial calm washes over him, Harry unfolds from his defensive curl, carefully dropping his legs down flat and sprawled in front of him on the floor. He shudders and drops his head back against the wall, swallowing. He still feels overwhelmed, but it's in the background as the potion does its job. He fidgets, restless, wand tapping along his leg, but he's motionless otherwise.

“What is your name, dear boy?” Dumbledore asks, taking the opportunity to step as close as Snape is kneeling.

Harry swallows his grief down, throat clicking audibly. He'd so missed Dumbledore's voice, his kindness, the twinkle in his warm eyes, and the brightness of his robes. _This_ Dumbledore doesn't know him or remember him, or someone is playing a cruel joke. With his luck lately, it isn't out of the question. “Harry Potter,” he croaks as a tear slides down his cheek.

The atmosphere in the room changes, and Harry shivers as he drops his head to look back at the men staring at him as though he has three heads. He glances to the sides to make sure he doesn't; magic does weird shit sometimes. He flinches when slender fingers reach up and push his unruly curls away from his face, but he doesn't lash out like he would have seconds ago.

“Someone call the Potters,” Riddle says urgently, having come closer to peer at Harry as Snape holds his hair back. On the edge of his attention, Harry observes Sirius and his lookalike, suddenly wide-eyed and highstrung, scurry out of the house, presumably to do just that.

He definitely shares their features,” the Potions Master says, and it's odd not to hear a sneer about how much he looks like James come from the man. It's surreal.

“There is no way that's Harry,” one of the strangers snaps, pointing at Harry accusingly with his cane, a little like Lucius Malfoy would. “That poor child died over a decade ago. Don't bother the Potters with this lying, barmy wretch!” He stamps the floor with the cane, scowling.

“It's very difficult to lie under the effects of a Calming Draught,” Dumbledore remarks, tone placating as he uses a soft hanky to wipe Harry's face of blood and sweat. He casts a soft Warming Charm when he sees the minute shivers dancing through the younger man's body. “The resemblance truly is remarkable, Abraxas.”

Abraxas... Abraxas Malfoy? The cane makes sense now.

“Difficult, not impossible,” the one called Abraxas retorts.

Harry feebly reaches out to lightly tug at Dumbledore's robes. “'M not lying,” he swears in a rasp, swallowing. “You can read my memories. My name is Harry Potter.”

“I can, indeed, young man,” Dumbledore agrees with a nod, expression intrigued for a moment before giving way to seriousness. “Are you giving me permission to use Legilimency?”

Harry bobs his head. “Yeah. You're the only one that's never hurt me with it before, sir. I trust you.”

“Curious.” The man that had so far remained by the fire leans forward, trying to peer around Dumbledore and Snape. “That suggest he's been at the receiving end of a mind-rapist. Perhaps we should summon the Aurors. He could be the victim of a crime, an assault which tore his mind and sent him careening through Gaunt's home.”

“Let me see what I can find before we go to such extremes,” Dumbledore says. “I promise not to be in there too long, Harry. I just need a few keys of information so I know how best to help, and to confirm your identity. Breathe calm and deep and try not to Occlude me unless you have to.”

“I understand.” Harry slumps, completely limp, too tired to do anything else. Snape's hands come up to help him into a more comfortable position. Absently, Harry sees Sirius and Doppelganger return with three or four people in cloaks. Tom Riddle goes to meet them, presumably to update them on what is about to happen.

“Harry, my boy, I need your eyes for this,” the former Headmaster calls patiently.

“Sorry.” He turns his attention to his old friend and idly rubs his fingers over the changed surface of the Elder Wand, tracing the swirls.

If not for how the memories flit over his mind's eye, Harry never would have known Albus Dumbledore is inside his head. His touch is gentle, almost delicate, and he thinks he probably can only feel him now because the experienced Wizard wants him to, likely as a courtesy since Harry is cooperating fully; it's nothing like Snape's constant battering and the utter violation he'd suffered. He regrets allowing the Wizard free reign as he sees the majority of his worst memories and very few of the good ones, reliving them all over again, but the Calming Draught keeps him from getting too upset, and he figures Dumbledore only needs to be reminded of the things he already knows. All throughout, the older Wizard is very respectful, and when he ends the spell, Harry only feels sleepy, not panicky and fueled with adrenaline.

“Oh, my poor boy,” Dumbledore murmurs softly, and he gently runs his hand over Harry's hair and down to cup his cheek tenderly. The twinkle in his eyes is muted, expression somber. Even his beard seems to droop. “I am so sorry. How you have suffered.”

Mindlessly, Harry nods, agreeing. “Tired,” he whispers, barely audible.

“Rest.” Hands gently soothe over him, easing him down to lie flat on the floor. “Severus and I will guard you in your sleep. You are safe.”

Again, Harry nods. He allows his exhaustion to take him, darkness closing in regardless of his consent. On a subconscious level, he knows that something important he doesn't yet comprehend has happened. For now, he will let the Fates take over. He'll deal with it when he awakes.

~*~

“ _Albus?”_

_The man shakes himself out of his melancholy pondering_ , blinking to drag himself back into the present. He looks over to the new occupants of the room, standing with the brothers Black and Thomas Gaunt. James and Lily Potter, and Fleamont and Euphemia Potter behind them, are dusted in melting snow. While Fleamont's face is stoic and quiet, the others faces clearly convey painfully hopeful expressions. Lily clasps her hands to her breast, James holds her shoulders in his hands, and Fleamont clasps his son's shoulder and one of his wife's hands. Sirius, the godfather in question, clings to his younger brother's cloak, a little wild-eyed as he waits just as anxiously as the Potters.

“Is it him?” Lily whispers, her voice breathless with anticipation.

Oh, this will hurt, but he cannot lie to one of his dearest friends. Albus sighs and stands up straight, leaving Snape to tend to the young man. “This, indeed, is Harry James Potter,” he says gravely, but he hurries along before anyone can say or do anything else. “But he is not _our_ Harry James Potter.”

“What do you mean?” James asks, forehead creasing in confusion.

Albus turns his gaze briefly to Thomas. “Please summon your Healer, Tom, my boy. Harry needs some serious treatment.” He takes his seat in the chair he'd occupied before the poor lad had fallen through Tom's roof. He observes Remus has busied himself with repairing what he can until Tom can get a professional to fully repair the damages.

“While it is true this young man is Harry Potter, and he _is_ the son of Lily Evans and James Potter, he is not the son of _our_ James and Lily,” Albus explains as his dear Gellert comes up behind his chair to rub his husband's shoulders.

“What? But how is that possible?” Lily demands, eyes wide with disbelief, continuously flickering over to the injured young man Severus carefully tends to as he slumbers on the hardwood.

“From what I saw of his memories, Harry was the victim of multiple magics clashing, and it resulted in on interdimensional tear between universes. He was transported here against his volition from his own world to ours, and who knows how many universes he was ripped through before he landed here.” He shakes his head, feeling a deep sadness for the boy, which easily overwhelms his awe and curiosity over the physics and theory behind the evidence of interdimensional travel. As no one has ever had the ability to prove such a thing to be possible, let alone begin to study the mechanics of it, the mere fact that it was a result of completely accidental and tragic methods means that it is very unlikely they can help Harry get home.

“Then...that would mean that his raving was not the result of an injury or mental illness,” Thomas says quietly, his thundercloud gray eyes contemplative and bright as he observes the young man. “It is likely the result of his home world.”

“He said that _all_ of us are dead,” Sirius chokes out, and now he grasps his brother's wrist protectively.

“We are,” Albus agrees with a nod. “Except for Gellert, perhaps. His fate was unclear and not a focus in Harry's life.” He reaches up to coil a hand around one of Gellert's, and those fingers squeeze back quietly. “But all of us present are dead in his world in some form or another. I do not know if falling through The Veil is truly considered a death.” He involuntarily makes eye contact with Sirius, who shudders and looks away quickly, swallowing. “Harry grew up in a version of the British Wizarding World ravaged by war, and he had the grave misfortune of being a key part of it since infancy.”

His eyes turn to James and Lily, who listen without gazing away from the young man that is their son, yet not. “I regret to say that your family treated him just as horribly as they did in our world, Lily.”

Lily flinches and makes a noise that sounds like a stifled sob, lower lip quivering. As in _this_ Harry's world, Petunia was a Squib who remained jealous of her sister well into her adulthood and married Vernon Dursley who only nurtured her spiteful nature. Lily had done all she could to try to keep an amicable relationship with her sister, had wanted Dudley and Harry to be good friends.

Harry, the sweet boy that he was, had not told his parents how Aunt Petunia and Uncle Dursley hurt him and said awful borderline terroristic things during the biweekly Fridays that he stayed with them while Lily and James worked long shifts as their jobs. Perhaps if he had, tragedy would not have befallen him at the hands of the most hateful Muggle Albus has ever had the displeasure of meeting.

The Dursleys took Harry with them on a trip to the beach a week after Harry's eleventh birthday.

They did not return home with him. They acted as though they had no idea where the boy was when Lily and James had returned to take him home. As if a happy, bright eleven-year-old boy run away without provocation.

An extensive weeks long search only resulted in procuring Harry's bloodstained and tattered clothes washing up onto the beach in a sheltered cove not too far away from the beach the Dursleys had visited. His body was never recovered. Both parents were sentenced to life in prison, and Dudley was placed with distant cousins on Lily's Muggle side of the family.

“In another world,” Lily shakily murmurs. “In another _dimension_ , Harry is an orphan.” Her eyes, teary and brilliant green, flick to Albus. “Something happens, and he is orphaned. And my sister mistreated him?”

Emotions squeezing his chest, Albus nods. “My counterpart saw fit to place him with the Dursleys on the grounds of blood protection wards from a mother's love. His godfather, Sirius, was wrongfully imprisoned for the apparent betrayal of the Potters that led to their demise.”

“Blood protection wards do not work if there is no love amongst the family,” Tom declares with a scowl.

“An oversight, perhaps. Or a product from Harry's inability to reach out and tell others of his abuse.” Albus glances over at the young man whose life has not been an easy one. “He tried in primary school, but the Dursleys were quite adopt in avoiding true investigation, and Harry suffered retaliation enough that he stopped trying.”

“You were only supposed to prove his honesty and look at what happened to bring him here, Albus,” Severus says reproachfully. “Not look into his entire life story.”

“The boy is suffering magical exhaustion and a concussion, among other injuries. Rather than Occlude his deepest secrets, he practically shoved them at me. He also, in his confusion, seemed to think that I only needed a reminder of things I am already supposed to know, given that he is a bit delirious and unaware of the truth of our existence. Out of everyone in this room, I am the one he felt safest with, and I was the one to send him to his first death.”

“What?” Fleamont demands, aghast.

Albus nods gravely, clinging to his husband's hand. “I had convinced Harry that his death was necessary via the Killing Curse to destroy the Horcrux in his scar.”

Every last person in the room shudders in revulsion and horror. Horcruxes are Banned and Forbidden Magic that even the avid Dark and Gray Wizards avoid unless they are well and truly mad and depraved. Heavy and intricate magics had been put in place to immediately alert the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if such rituals are being conducted. Extreme sentences are doled out for offenses. The mere mention of them made most people cringe in horror and distaste. The detriment to one's soul is severe and not at all justifiable to the additional lives lost for the creation.

And the Tom Riddle in Harry's world had made _seven_ of them.

“How can he be here, then if the Killing Curse was cast?” Euphemia asks tremulously, looking near fainting as she finally looks away from her only grandchild, one she lost so long ago. “No one just walks away from that.”

Before he can answer, a house elf arrives, guiding Healer Emerus McAvoy behind him. Albus quiets, making a gesture suggesting that they will continue the conversation after the good Healer has left. The Potters subside unhappily, quiet as they watch the man immediately attend to their unexpected guest, Snape shuffling to the side but not removing himself completely. Should the young Wizard awaken, it would be best to have a familiar face nearby lest he panic and become defensive once more.

Healer McAvoy is thorough and professional, even going so far as to erect a privacy barrier to hide the young Potter's body from view when he makes the clothes on his body go transparent. The cloak and messenger bag are removed, and Snape busies himself with casting cleaning charms and a charm to mend a few scuffs and tears in both.

Eventually, Healer McAvoy drops the privacy charm, having returned the lad's clothes to normal. “This young man was certainly put through the ringer,” he remarks, voice layered with a charming Irish accent. “The top priority is recovery from severe magical exhaustion. He was also hit with some sort of nerve-killing curse that may cause permanent nerve damage in his left arm. I have healed the majority of a severe concussion, and he may still suffer headaches, dizziness, and confusion for the next few days. I also took care of the lacerations along his arms and scalp, although I am unsure as to the cause of the bleeding in the mark above his eye, as it is a very old scar.” He gestures to a mark on his chest that is barely visible currently with Albus sitting at a distance. “That injury is fairly new and mildly and perplexing, hastily healed, and I sensed a connection stemming from it to his wand. Without knowing the story behind it, I can only presume he feared being disarmed and bound his wand to him with magic. Again, this is only speculation.

“It is obvious he was in an attack of some kind. On top of the injury to his arm, the rest of his nervous system is frayed, like it has been subjected to electrocution. His blood cells are also reacting sluggishly, which could be from the same curse or a separate one. This means his immune system is compromised and will be quite vulnerable for an unknown amount of time. He is underweight and shows signs of an ongoing recovery from childhood neglect and starvation.”

Healer McAvoy gently lifts Harry's right arm, tilting it to show Severus something on the hand. “These scars were carved into him repeatedly, suggesting torture from a Blood Quill, and due to the frequency, Dark Magic still remains under the surface of his skin.” He puts Harry's arm down carefully and gives the boy's head a gentle pat. “I estimate he is about twenty-two to twenty-four years old, and he is thus far Unbonded to a soulmate.”

“So, in conclusion,” the man says as he stands straight and tall, “this young man requires no less than ten days of rest and food and several potions that I imagine our dear Potions Master can provide. He will need an Immunity Booster, a Cleansing Potion for the dispelling of the Dark Magic in his hand, Nerve Repair elixir, and a nutrient potion to help with the Immunity Booster.”

“A pain potion and a sling would likely benefit his injured arm, as the muscles and joint of his shoulder will become strained with the inability to move them properly. However, he will still need to exercise his shoulder so the joint doesn't freeze up. Even though the curse was a nerve-killer, it only did so in a sense that the arm is unable to respond to the majority of commands from the brain. He will still be able to feel pain, which will likely be on the severe side of moderate.” He looks around the room. “Will anyone be providing the young man lodgings?”

“He will come with us,” Fleamont announces firmly. Although Albus is unsure of the wisdom behind the decision, no one else has the heart to deny the man the right to house his grandson from a different universe.

“Very good,” the Healer says with a nod. “If you need me, please contact me through Mr. Gaunt.” He bows, accepting Tom's thanks graciously as he heads toward the door before taking his leave.

The room is quiet for a few moments. Lily and James can no longer contain themselves, and they rush over to the other side of the room. They kneel beside the resting Wizard, and Albus feels his chest ache with sympathy and regret as they fawn over him, their fingers almost too delicate in their touches, as though afraid he'd disappear before their eyes.

“Albus,” Gellert urges softly, thumb rubbing his hand to get his attention. “How did young Potter survive the Killing Curse?”

“Ah, yes.” He clears his throat, aware of the eyes on his form. “I must iterate that this is very sensitive information. We must not let what I am about to tell you get into the wrong hands. You all are my most trusted friends, but these are this young man's secrets. We must not endanger him by leaking them.”

“No one here will do anything of the sort, Albus,” Abraxas says, both hands on the pommel of his cane as he leans on it. “We all know a thing or two on secrecy. Young Potter shall not come to harm due to waggling tongues.”

The rest of those in attendance all nod their heads, and a rush of magic, like a warm breeze that coils around their torsos, swirls around the room, surprising everyone but Tom Gaunt. He inclines his head, acknowledging their concern. “It's an enchantment I set in the walls. Promises made of this level of importance are reinforced by the magic. Not as strong as an Unbreakable, but there is a level of intestinal _discomfort_ that will make one's life miserable for a month should a vow be broken,” Tom explains unapologetically.

More confident and at peace, Albus decides to reveal the knowledge he holds with the promise of magical retribution on anyone who broke the verbal oath. “Throughout the course of young Harry's life,” he begins, “he has gone through many trials in the effort to defeat a Dark Lord that had become obsessed with attempting to kill him. In the process, he acquired all three Deathly Hallows. The Resurrection stone hidden within the first Golden Snitch he captured in Quidditch, the Cloak of Invisibility as a gift from my persona in his world after James had left it in my care, and the Elder Wand in a duel.

“He survived the Killing Curse twice.” Albus pauses and waves his hand for the room's occupants to calm down before he could continue, their voices loud in their disbelief and horror. “The first time had been when the Dark Lord threw the Killing Curse at him and dear Lily, who refused to stand down and stood between. She fell, and her soul protected Harry, causing the curse to rebound and slay the Dark Lord instead. The man was a wraith for years after, and because he was forced from his mortal form, a piece broke off and attached to Harry's scar as a Horcrux, fueled by the accidental ritual with Lily's sacrifice. The Resurrection Stone was in his hand right up until the Killing Curse struck him for the second time in his life. Possessing all three Hallows means that he is the Master of Death, aptly named the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice by the Wizarding World of his universe.”

He gestures to the wand still clutched in Harry's grasp even in sleep. “Harry put the wand he used to defeat the Dark Lord in my tomb, as it had been mine for many years before it was stolen; he believed no one should have that much power. However, it would seem the Elder Wand from his world did not agree. It appears that the wand, which I have always believed to be far more sentient than any normal wand could be, decided it _would_ be with its rightful Master, and consumed Harry's original wand.”

Albus rises and moves forward, and Severus obligingly moves to the side for the older Wizard to kneel. He turns Harry's arm over and lifts where his fingers are still wrapped around his wand. A quiet buzz comes from it in warning, as if daring Dumbledore to attempt to separate them. “This wand has the feel of two cores,” he murmurs with a frown, feeling the duality resonating from the center of the wand. “The original Elder Wand was made with a thestral tail hair core and the wood of an elder tree, but this one seems to have assimilated Harry's holly wand, not just disposed of or consumed it.” Swirls of the pale wood of the holly almost glowed through the darker elder wood, making it seem more ethereal, and even in rest, there is an otherworldly awareness about that wand, an intelligence and vigilance, that Albus hasn't felt form his own or even from Gellert's Elder Wand.

Gellert steps forward curiously, towering over his crouched partner, and his Elder Wand makes an odd noise, like a chirp mixed with a bee's buzzing, and Harry's Elder-and-Holly responds similarly. “How curious,” Gellert murmurs, and Albus sees the light in his eyes from so long ago that both of them shared as children, that love for the mystery and intrigue for the legends of the Deathly Hallows and the power within the Elder Wand. “The Elder Wand was not satisfied being separated from or allowing another wand to serve it's Master. It consumed and combined its power and materials with the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand, and it's twined around the core and the wood to become stronger. Then it used Blood Magic to tie itself to Harry forevermore.”

“Why didn't yours do that?” Lily wonders curiously, fingers stroking through Harry's tangled mess of curls, black as night, the wildness all from the Potter side of the family.

“Perhaps because once I achieved its loyalty, I never tried to separate from it,” Gellert replies thoughtfully. “We bonded, but I am not the Master of any other Hallows. Perhaps that is the true reason. The laws of magic are still a mystery to us in the end. We can only speculate at this juncture.”

Before anyone can say anything further, Harry shifts with a frown on his face, obviously in discomfort. Severus passes the boy's messenger bag to Fleamont, muttering that he had potions to make, obviously fueled by his sense of duty to Lily's son, though he promises Euphemia he will be by Potter Place once he had the first round of potions made for Harry. Fleamont and his wife stand back as Lily and James fawn over Harry, coaxing him back to wakefulness.

Groggy emerald eyes open, and they take a few moments to focus. He blinks blearily at Lily, who smiles at him tremulously. “Hi,” he whispers quietly, and Albus feels like he is witnessing something not meant for his eyes.

Gellert helps his husband up from the floor, brushing off his robes, and they both back up away from the Potters.

“Hello, darling boy,” Lily responds, her quivering voice full of joy and awe, dangerously close to breaking. “I've missed you.”

Harry's head rolls a little to look at James, who offers his own hesitant but happy grin, hand firm where it rests on the boy's leg. The young man swallows, licks his lips. “You're not mine, are you?” he inquires seriously, heartache shadowing the words.

“We can be, Harry.” Lily's voice is insistent, charged with love and desperation. “We want to be. We had our Harry for eleven years before we lost him. Let us be yours, Harry. We can be your family, I swear. We have so much love we want to give.”

The young Wizard is quiet, and his expression suggests he's trying to think long and hard about it, likely not wanting to make any rash decisions. Ultimately though, he struggles up into a sitting position, accepting help from Lily to get into the mostly upright position, and he painstakingly attempts to secure his wand in the holster inside his shirt sleeve. A frown creases his face in displeasure at the ill-fit, as the Elder Wand appears too long for it.

“There's no need to make important decisions right now, Harry,” James assures him, hand rubbing up and down on its place on the boy's thigh. “Let's get you up. We're going to take you to our home so you can rest in comfort.”

“Why?” Harry blinks in confusion, although he goes along with allowing them to help him stand easily enough.

“Would you rather a room at St. Mungo's?”

“I have my own house,” Harry protests, swaying on his feet. Now that he is standing, they can see the young man isn't particularly tall. In fact, he's shorter than Lily by several centimeters. Albus suspects it is a result from the neglect he suffered being raised by the Dursleys, as his father and grandfather were at least 180cm. Lily wraps her arm around him, and James stands at his other side so they could support him as he sways unsteadily.

“I live at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place,” Harry replies. “Sirius left it to me when he passed.” The thickness in his voice, the way he swallows, is a shadow of the grief the boy obviously still feels at this particular death.

“Number Twelve doesn't belong to me,” Sirius pipes up for the first time, pressed against Remus' side. “I haven't lived there since third year. My parents still live there though.”

Harry frowns. “So I don't have a home here... This makes no _sense_.” He puts his hand to his forehead, right at the scar, as though it hurts him.

They manage to coax him a few steps forward while he's distracted, all stumbling and unsteady awkwardness in his weakness. He pauses when he sees Fleamont and Euphemia, and his breath hitches. It's clear he knows who Fleamont, at the very least, is. The Potter genes are strong, and the men look like clones of each other with minor differences. Fleamont has deep brown eyes, but James has Euphemia's hazel, and his jawline is softer than his father's.

“I don't understand,” Harry whispers softly. His hand comes back up to his head, to that scar, and Albus wonders if he feels a reminiscent ache from the Horcrux that died long ago, like an echo.

“Hello Harry,” Fleamont and Euphemia greet together, the older Witch clasping her hands while her husband continues to clutch the messenger bag. “We're your grandparents,” Euphemia continues. “You grew up in another world, and you grew up so beautiful.” She takes a few steps toward him, carefully, arms half-lifted and reaching for him.

“Another world?” the younger Wizard squeaks, startled, eyes wide like a frightened deer's, and he likely would have staggered if not for James' and Lily's hold on him. “What do you mean, another world?”

Albus sighs, wishing the grandparents had waited until Harry had had more time to rest before they dropped more bombs on him. He steps forward and doesn't miss how Harry turns to him so trustingly, even after all the secrets the other him had kept, the harm he had allowed to happen and had either neglected or failed to protect this poor boy. To the very end, Harry had loved and respected the Dumbledore of his world.

“Dear boy,” he beckons quietly, and Harry stumbles over to stand as close as he dares. Albus takes a breath, resting his hand on Harry's shoulder. “The magics that surrounded you on the Hogwarts school grounds created a wormhole and threw you across countless dimensions until you landed here in my world. In our world, none of us died. Our Dark Lord was killed many years ago, and it was not Gellert or Voldemort. Our Harry Potter was murdered by the Dursleys when he had just turned eleven years old.” He cups the side of Harry's face, gazing into wide green eyes with his own kind blue. “Darling boy, we are happy to see you, but you are not ours.” He closes his eyes against the agony deep in those green orbs, emerald hues that have seen and known too much pain for such a short life.

“That is not to say that we do not accept you,” Gellert steps in, coming the few steps forward to stand beside Albus. “If you allow us, we would love you just as much as we did our Harry, who was taken from us too soon. Your parents and grandparents, and Sirius, would do anything for the opportunity, even if you are not technically ours.”

“You could _become_ ours, Bambi,” Sirius whispers vehemently, looking like he wants to crowd into the boy's space.

“I always hated that nickname,” James grumbles, and even though it likely isn't the intention, it seems to startle a laugh out of Harry, who had started to look shell-shocked but now has a crinkle of delight creasing his face.

“Sirius always said you did,” Harry gasps, wiping his face. “Mum did, too, because she was afraid you all would be upset if I had an Animagus form completely different from what you expected, and I wouldn't be Bambi anymore.”

“You'd always be Bambi, even if you were a slug Animagus, just for the fact that you're James' offspring,” Regulus says with a smile, Sirius nodding enthusiastically.

“And because it bothers James so much,” Remus murmurs conspiratorially, to which James squawks in outrage.

“You have a place here with us if you want it, Harry,” James speaks up after a moment, turning his attention from his “traitorous” friends. He takes the few strides needed to cross the short distance, and he turns Harry into a firm hug, gathering his son's smaller form against his. He closes his eyes and presses his lips to the top of Harry's head. Harry hesitates a few breaths in before bringing his arm up to return the embrace, the left arm hanging limply.

“I think an important point that needs to be addressed is that decisions do not need to be made right now,” Tom interjects calmly, the first thing he's said in quite a while, and Abraxas has been a silent observer for the majority of the evening as well. “A major series of events have occurred for all of us, although there are certainly different perspectives and reactions all around. The most important course of action at the moment is as my Healer stated; Mr. Potter has quite a few injuries he needs to recover from, and it would be best for him to stay with his family, regardless of which world they are, or he is, from, or to recover in St. Mungo's. The rest should be put on the back burner, at least for the next few days.”

“Quite right, Tom, my boy, thank you,” Albus chirps with a grin, to which Tom nods. “We will see you again, Harry, rest assured. Go with the Potters so you may heal. I think we should all vacate in any event. I'm sure Tom would like to have his home to himself again.”

A few people chuckle halfheartedly. Harry still looks a little unsure, but what little energy he has is quickly flagging. He goes along with James, whose arms remain completely around him until they make it to Lily. Lily spends some time fussing with putting on the cloak that has suffered a bit in his trip literally _through_ the house, wanting him to be appropriately dressed. Then she pulls out her wand to cast a Warming Charm, but it startles Harry, who has far too much experience with strangers pulling wands on him with the intent to harm.

He flinches and stumbles back on instinct, but he trips and starts to fall with an aborted shout.

Tom is quick to step forward, and he catches Harry before the younger man can land on the floor and possibly re-injure himself.

A bright white light flashes between them, and a burst of gold glitter plumes around their heads. Their eyes blow wide in surprise, and Tom clutches Harry tighter as the light and golden starlight refuses to fade. Lily's hands fly up to cover her mouth, and the whole of the room stares on in wonder.

What strength Harry had drops away. His legs give out, and Tom controls their descent to the floor with Harry's dead weight. He turns the smaller Wizard around so their eyes can meet, and though Albus wants to give them privacy, he and the others are unable to look away, bearing witness to their Meeting. Tom cups Harry's cheek in his palm tenderly, starlight falling down from the new contact. His storm-gray eyes stare into Harry's impossibly large, awestruck emerald ones.

“We're soulmates,” he whispers, and the sheer joy and wonder in his voice reminds those here who are Bonded of their own Meetings. “I've finally met you. You're here.”

Harry appears speechless. All he can do is stare and nod, his good hand clinging to the wrist of the hand holding his face, the other hand twisting fingers in the fabric of Tom's burgundy robes. Tom lets out a soft breath that is almost a breathless laugh, and he tugs Harry close for a heartfelt embrace, tucking Harry's head under his chin. His eyes close, face serene in a way no one has ever seen him, and Harry relaxes into the hold for the first time they've met him.

Then a little more, and Tom makes a soft huff of surprise. “He fainted,” he says quietly.

“Not at all surprising, really, with all he's been through tonight,” Euphemia remarks.

“Would you mind if I accompanied you to your home, Lady Potter?” Tom inquires, eyes on the older woman. “I would like to hold him a little longer.” He adjusts his grip on the younger Wizard carefully.

“We have known each other long enough to be on a first name basis,” the grandmother says as Fleamont fusses over her cloak. “Call me Euphemia. You are more than welcome to join us. You are part of the family now, yes?” Her smile is soft and maybe a little teary.

James comes around behind Tom and helps him to his feet so he doesn't have to set Harry down. Tom scoops his arm under Harry's legs, carrying him bridal-style, and he holds still as a house elf pops in to fasten a cloak to him. Albus and Gellert agree to lock up his home as he and the Potters head out into the snowy night.


End file.
